


Rubbish Flirts

by Castillon02



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gift Week 2016, Humor, M/M, MI6 Cafe Challenge, Mild Kink, Rubbish bins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:45:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6991987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond and Q’s first sexy weekend together ends with a bit of practical domesticity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rubbish Flirts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timetospy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timetospy/gifts).



> For timetospy's prompt "Someone has to take out the rubbish"--happy gift week! And many thanks to beginte for looking this over for me ^ ^

They really had ordered too much food. Half-empty take-away boxes and tubs littered the surface of Q’s coffee table, his plush armchair, and the side table next to Bond, who was sitting at one end of Q’s sofa.

“Oh my god,” Q moaned, sprawled on the other end of the sofa with his pajama bottoms slung low on his hips and his hands covering the little bulge of his bare belly. “If your plan was to stupefy me with food until you can get it up again, you’ve probably succeeded.” He scooted closer and made a show of peering at Bond’s lap, hope and concern warring comically across his face. A smear of masala had somehow found its way under his jaw.  

Bond chuckled next to him. “I think we’ve earned a refractory period or two,” he said, reaching over to pet Q’s hair.

He’d tried to get his hands on Q’s hair just after picking him up for the weekend, too. Q had shrugged him off then, frowning and muttering something about not being Bond’s dog. Bond hadn’t meant it that way; it was only that he liked to touch, and Q’s hair looked soft and strokable even on its worst days. He maybe had a bit of a thing.

Had had a bit of a thing, in fact, throughout their days and late nights at MI6, nights which had strayed further and further away from the pretense of work, leading them…here. To Q’s sofa, and Bond’s hand in his curls.  

Sometime in their last—and their first—forty-eight hours together outside of Six, he must have convinced Q of his better intentions, because Q smiled instead of snapping at the fingers running through his hair, and wriggled so his head lay across Bond’s naked thighs. After a moment he frowned, fetched a pillow from where it had been knocked onto the floor, and put it over Bond’s legs, burrowing into it with a contented sigh.  

“Muscles not soft enough?” Bond asked. He got a half-asleep hum in the affirmative for his troubles. He resumed stroking, fond and a little wistful about the soft layer of fat he couldn’t let his body develop, and maybe just a bit turned on—Q’s naked back was a thing of beauty—but it was a halfhearted trickle of heat from a source that had been all but spent already. He ached; a satisfied, full-body stretch of an ache. Take-away and a nap were just what the love doctor ordered.  

“Shoulders too, please,” Q murmured.

“Since you’re so polite,” Bond said, tickling the back of Q’s neck where he was sensitive and watching a shiver run its way down Q’s spine, a ripple compared to the tidal undulations he’d seen when Q really got going. And then, because he wasn’t completely an arse, he pet Q’s shoulders in long, gentle strokes—strokes that became even gentler as his eyes began to flutter shut.

***   

He woke up to Q rolling onto the ground in front of him, landing in an ungainly pile of limbs before hauling himself up by the edge of the coffee table that he’d just missed hitting on his way down. “Taking a piss,” Q muttered, and wandered off in the direction of the toilet.

Bond had never heard him say something so crude, aside from dismayed cursing at Six and maybe, “your cock, you fucker, go on and fuck me unless it’s going to throw your sodding back out, fuck me or I’ll—I’ll turn you over and suck you ’til you cry— _shit fuck yes_ —” He lay there for a few minutes, enjoying the drowsy memories and plotting ways to hear Q say more crude things. Falling boffin wasn’t the worst way to end a nap.

In the still of the flat, he heard Q’s exit from the toilet and his release of the kitties, who’d been shut up in the bedroom on the pretense that they were shameless beggars, but more probably because Q hadn’t known whether they’d indulge in living room sex or not. A faint “Damn it, Borg!” emerged from the sitting room where the cats had their tree—Borg liked to trip people. Food rattled into the cats’ dishes. The kettle clicked on and began to boil. It was past eight at night; Q would never get to sleep at this rate.

Promising.

Bond shoved himself out of his lassitude, tidied up the living room, and headed to the kitchen.

Like most of Q’s flat, the kitchen was done in warm woods with the occasional sign of nerdy pop culture thrown in: here a Cthulu tea towel, there a “Ceiling cat is watching you” mug sitting by the sink. Upon seeing him, Q stopped leaning against the center island, put his mug down, and broke into a mocking golf clap.

Bond, every single one of the numerous take-away containers teetering in his hands, paused in the kitchen doorway and dared to dip into a mocking bow in return.

“Bravo,” Q said, stepping forward.  

Bond straightened out of his bow and froze, paneer tikka nightmares flashing before his eyes as a plastic tub on top began to topple—

—right into Q’s waiting hand. “Perhaps we won’t put you undercover as a waiter who drives a nice little Honda Civic just yet,” he teased, putting the container down on the counter.

“Perhaps not,” Bond agreed. “You can probably think of better uses for my hands, after all.” He smirked at Q and made to walk past him.

Q’s hand on his arm stopped him. “Maybe,” he said. He slipped between Bond’s laden hands. His lips met Bond’s, careful and tasting of mint toothpaste. Then he pulled back enough to let Bond see the sly look in his eyes. “Or maybe I like the use they’re being put to right now after all.” He trailed an increasingly less careful series of kisses down Bond’s jaw and neck, one proprietary hand settled on Bond’s hip.

“Q,” Bond said, his muscles locked, his skin prickling as Q blew on it and let his lips graze the spot just below his ear, flushing when Q mouthed wetly and let his tongue promise-promise-promise. — _still, keep still, keep_ — Then came the sharp nip of teeth and the hot claim of Q’s mouth, sucking. He shuddered; the take-away containers shuddered with him.

“Steady,” Q murmured, just as cool and collected as if he were on comms, as if his breath wasn’t whispering over that sensitive spot just above Bond’s jugular.  

The bloody cheek of it went right to Bond’s cock.  

He inhaled—slow—exhaled—slow—and regained his balance. He could keep holding the boxes if Q wanted. For as long as Q wanted. Q wouldn’t ask him to hold them past the time when he couldn’t.   

Q met his eyes and a complicated expression streaked across his face before he smiled again, secret and pleased. “You’re being so good,” he said. Then he kissed Bond on the nose and said, “I’ll take that,” lifting the stack of take-away containers out of Bond’s left hand.

Bond blinked. Had he ever been kissed on the nose? Bitten, by one of his charming married women, but not kissed, at least not since—

He shoved the memory of her away, automatically stabilizing the remaining containers with his newly free hand.

“Thank you for cleaning up,” Q said, nodding his appreciation. “And for being, er…patient. With that bit of improvisation.” He busied himself with opening the boxes and consolidating the take-away, stuffing the samosas in with the kebabs and the prawns.

“I liked it,” Bond said, closing the distance between them so he could rest his hands on Q’s shoulders and rub his cheek like a cat against the soft, sleep-mussed hair on the back of Q’s head.

He hadn’t gotten tired of Q, as he had half hoped and half worried that he would, and the future seemed…startlingly open. He clarified: “I wouldn’t mind being _er, patient_ again sometime. For you.” He kissed a love bite on the back of Q’s neck.

Q’s mouth twitched upwards and he glanced up from the food. “We could use books, maybe,” he said. “Or something fragile but a bit heavy.” He wriggled out of Bond’s hands and placed the now-full take-away boxes in the refrigerator, his brow furrowed as his engineer’s brain considered the logistics of the problem. “Hmm…”

“Open paint cans,” Bond joked. Q’s poor floors!

But Q paused where he stood. “Tarp on the floor and walls,” he said, holding Bond’s gaze with his own. “Cans with padded bottoms and edible body paint instead of real house paint. Very doable.” A trace of smugness stole across his face.

What a mess! But Bond’s breath had caught in his throat. Imagine if he didn’t spill a single drop, how good he’d have to be, how Q might reward him…or if his arms gave out and he covered Q in splashes of chocolate paint.

“Perhaps a bit advanced for a second date, though,” Q said, ducking his head in apology. “I do get caught up…”  

“Maybe not too advanced for a later one,” Bond offered, his stomach in his throat like he was leaping off a rooftop.

Q stuffed the emptied take-away containers in the bin, which gave him time to subdue the blossoming, telling smile on his face.

Bond dropped onto a shop canopy below the roof, safe as houses.

Then Q turned around, a little calmer, and he gestured for Bond to give him the remaining take-away containers.

Ah. The shop canopy broke open, tumbling him back to Earth. Probably he should have been reorganizing his stack of take-away too, not just staring at Q and making hypothetical plans for future weird sex. Oh well—he’d take out the rubbish instead. He handed Q the boxes and walked over to the bin. It was a cream-colored affair, about a meter in height, no lid, and there was a styrofoam take-away box nearly brimming over its edge. It was, in a word, full. He reached down to take the bag out.

“Wait,” Q said. “I’ll just be a minute.”   

Bond gave the bin a doubtful glance, but waited while Q reduced the number of containers with food in them from seven to three, fitting garlic naan and their half-eaten mains together. The three bulging food containers went onto the refrigerator shelves like Tetris blocks. Q fit the empty ones into each other and brought them over.

“Hold these, please,” he said, handing the containers to Bond. Once Bond had them, Q planted a hand on the surface of the take-away container at the top of the rubbish and squashed everything down until there was a decent-sized gap in the bin. He then plucked the containers from Bond’s hands and shoved until they were all in the bin before tying the bag. With a little ‘voila’ kind of flourish, he handed the bag to Bond. “All good. What?” he asked, seeing Bond’s face.

“I suppose I thought you were above that kind of bachelor behavior,” Bond admitted. He should have known better; Q got his hands dirty when he needed to, after all, and he prized economical solutions.

Q raised his eyebrows. “Are you disappointed I’m not too much of a neatnick?” he asked.

“Relieved,” Bond said. “You know I like you dirty.” He leered.

Q rolled his eyes. “You can dirty me up again when you use better lines,” he said, and went to the sink to wash his hands.   

Actually, a knot so tiny that Bond hadn’t known it was in his stomach to begin with had relaxed. In his own apartment he shoved the contents of his bin down with impunity. He hadn’t done the same for Q’s because his usual philosophy when he wanted to be invited over again was to avoid potential hygiene faux-pas. No one wanted to look like a boor in front of a date they wanted to impress. On the other hand, he would have had to make the same decision the next time he came over, and the next, silently watching as a hypothetical, now proven false Q removed the bin liner before he had to…    

Thank God Q was a normal person who got the most out of his bin bag.

A normal person who, now that they were talking about clean and dirty, did in fact have masala on his neck.

Bond propped the bin bag against the bin. “Let me get this now that you’re washing up,” he said. He dampened a paper towel, tapped Q’s jaw to signal him to keep still, and dabbed at the errant spot of sauce under his chin until it was gone. The paper towel went into the top of the bin bag.  

“I wondered how long you’d let me wander around like that,” Q said, smirking. “As usual, however, you make up for your tardiness with an unexpected yet effective resolution of the problem.”

“I thought telling people things they already know was your job,” Bond said, feigning innocence. “I prefer to take action.”

Q bumped shoulders with him. “Come on then, action man. I’ll show you where we put this,” he waved his hand at the bag full of rubbish, “and then we’ll see if you’re up for some real action with _this_.” He pulled at his cock through his pajamas, leering in obvious parody.

Bond leered back and added a lewd gesture.

Q narrowed his eyes. Mimed blowing someone and fondling their balls.

They engaged in a brief obscenity war, which Bond won by virtue of being so obscene that Q couldn’t stop laughing, which led to a bit of giggly snogging because Q’s cracked composure only made Bond want to mess him up properly.

“Bedroom,” Q said after the edge of the counter had dug into his back one too many times, and tugged Bond out of the kitchen.  

A bit later, as they walked out of Q’s flat, the bin bag in Bond’s hand, both of them half-dressed and shagged out again, it occurred to Bond that he just might be setting himself up for more of these taking-out-the-rubbish trips. But this was Q, and Bond was action man; he was pretty sure he could handle being bin man sometimes too.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is welcome; I'm always looking to improve! <3


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